


What If

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A “what-if” ficlet. Set post an AU "Welcome to the Hellmouth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for "Welcome to The Hellmouth."

“It’s almost dawn.” Cool, gentle fingers stroke Xander’s temples, brushing away sweat-damp strands. A nibble on his ear and he’s a little more awake.  
  
“How do you know?” The drapes in their motel room are tightly drawn against any outside light.  
  
“I dunno, I just -  _know_. Like some new, freaky vamp sense, or somethin’.”  
  
 _Hmm._  “That’s fucked up. But kinda cool.” Xander’s response to any new and freaky vamp senses they’d discovered in the weeks since leaving the ‘Dale.  
  
“You can say that again.”  
  
“That’s fucked up. But kinda cool.”   
  
The response has become something of a running joke between them.  
  
Chuckles turn into kisses and naughty touching that leaves them both breathless, though only one of them actually  _needs_  to breathe.  
  
“God, I could fuck you again, right now.” The erection nudging Xander’s hip bears that out.   
  
“I think that’s ‘cause you’re an evil, undead sex-fiend.” Cool point of tongue grazing the neat punctures in Xander’s neck and shoulder. He’s hard, and getting harder, though after the night they’ve had he would’ve said that was impossible.  
  
“Racist fucktard.” Cool, slightly knobby knee nudging Xander’s legs apart.  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“Well, you’re acting all holier-than-thou ‘cause you’ve got a pulse. BFD.” Sharp, lingering bites all over Xander’s chest and nipples as a room temperature body settles between his legs.  
  
“First off: I  _am_  holier than thou, what with you having no soul. Second - vampires aren’t a race, they’re a - species. Of demon.”  
  
“I prefer the term Undead-American.”  
  
“Living impaired-American.” Xander chuckles - hell,  _giggles_. He’s already bucking up and making whimpery noises that mean  _more, please_. Why pretend he’s anything even approaching manly?  
  
“You’re still a racist,” is whispered before his earlobe is bitten hard enough to leave a mark like the hundreds he’s already got on various parts of his anatomy. The thought of all the scars and bruises on his body - like badges, like marks of  _ownership_  - turns his initial reply to a wavering moan. It’s several minutes before he can speak again.   
  
“You’re still the evil undead.”  
  
“But I’m not racist, unlike you.”   
  
“I’m not racist! Damn, you’re annoying!” Choking back laughter when you say that? Not the most convincing way to declare some righteous anger. But Xander knows when he’s just being fucked with. That’s one of the many things that hasn’t changed since they’d left the ‘Dale and _God_ , is Xander glad they left. Just remembering the rabid look in that Buffy-girl’s eyes  _while_  she Slayed makes him shiver and cling.   
  
The fact that Buffy’d managed to drag  _Willow_  into her childhood trauma makes Xander slightly nauseas.  
  
“We’re safe, it’s over. Hakuna matata, bro.” A rain of cool, possessive kisses all over Xander’s face and neck.  
  
 _Can vampires read minds? Or am I just that obvious? It really _is_  something new, every day, with this whole - vamp-thing. . . ._   
  
But under an assault of cuddles, licks and purrs, Xander’s  _thoughty_  thoughts melt away. For now.   
  
“Are all vampires like giant kitty cats, or is that just you, ya big girl?” Strong hands pin Xander’s own hands to the mattress with a warning growl, then let go. Xander knows to leave his hands there.  
  
“And a chauvinist, too, Xan? I don’t even know who you are.”  
  
“You're telling me you're a vamp with a social conscience?” Xander gasps and shivers as one, almost-warm finger breaches him slowly, implacably. There’s a pricking in the crook of his neck, then just next to his right nipple: he wonders where the next marks will go.  
  
“I don’t need a conscience, I have  _you_.” Two fingers, a twist and hello, Mr. Prostate!  
  
Xander can sense the wicked smile even though he can’t see it. In the sudden silence, the motel is settling and traffic is racing by on the Interstate. Cool, strong hands push Xander’s legs up until the backs rest on cool, bony shoulders.  
  
That Watcher, Mr. Giles, had said that vampires couldn’t love, that when a person is turned, there’s nothing left of them. There’s just a demon, a soulless killing machine wearing a human face.  
  
In Xander’s experience, this is the farthest thing from the truth.  
  
Cool, slick hardness pushes in and Xander’s gasp is swallowed by a coppery, sharp-edged kiss.   
  
“Christ - you’re like - a furnace.”   
  
Xander would never admit it, but he’s ridiculously flattered by the totally unnecessary panting.   
  
“Love you, Xan.”  
  
“Love you, too, Jess.”


End file.
